Archive for 22/01/2023


The fluttering of the tent over our sleep

cut in pieces by the wind

half black, half yellow landscape

a severed foot searching for its body

the dowser striking, trying the door,

and death striking, trying our hearts.

One talks in his sleep

the other yells like the wounded in the battleground

the others don’t listen, they sleep.

Are they then dead?

And the same voice crying: water, water.

It’s nothing. Go to sleep.

I’ll bring a spring to your hands day after tomorrow

and a river day after tomorrow. Go to sleep.

It’s not the ship, it’s the wind.

The hallway with the tiles, half black half yellow,

the crutches of the night in the hallway too.

It’s nothing, just the wind, go to sleep.

The resistance of the stretched rope

that can withstand, resolve can withstand too.

Justice can’t be cut in two. The Virgin of the Moon

saunters barefoot amid the tents.

What can you do with such a wind? One was talking

          in his sleep.

It stops the words of the dead half unsaid.

What do you want? What?

What does the moon want in the old men’s tent?

The moon holds a small pocket knife to engrave

a few grapevine leaves in the coffin of uncle-Mitsos,

it has two short Sundays in its eyes.

What can we now do with this pocket knife?

There is vein in the wrist of the arm — it’s not there;

a bit further is the pulse, further in

and the rope that withstands the wind

ouhh, youhh, uncle moon

these ropes can’t be cut

let go of your knife, let go of it

go to the sick children and sell silver crosses to them.

Your feet seem too thin for these big boots

they can’t pull your legs;

these big boots of our comrades.

Lean down, measure them

count the distance they have walked

the road they’ll walk

the endless road.

These boots, repaired as they are, thick and rough

don’t suit your feet, oh moon.

These boots carried pain,

death, uncle moon,

they carried death without stumbling.

Wheat Ears – Selected Poems

Posted: 22/01/2023 by vequinox in Literature


Crosshairs focused on the roof

of faraway dwelling

he held his breath

moment of silence observed before

the soundless explosion

screwing up the daily news

he could have applauded

the accuracy of missile

corpses laid

on the insatiable soil

hardened by hatred

the settling dust

Abil with his comics book in hand

Abil who lay staring at the starry sky

through the hole above him

he could have applauded

the missile accuracy

Βίκυ Παπαπροδρόμου: ό,τι πολύ αγάπησα (ποίηση, πεζογραφία & μουσική)

Omar Akram, Dancing with the wind (album: Free as a bird (2004))



Σε βλέπω

Στο απλό χέρι που δίνεται
Σε μια κλωστή σ’ ένα φύλλο
Ματιά που γεμίζεις τη θάλασσα

Σ’ ακολουθεί το πλανημένο μάτι
Πέρα από κάθε ακρωτήρι
Τρυπώντας κάθε ορίζοντα

Σαν την κυνηγημένη σκιά του Νότου
Σαν την καρδιά που έκοψε τα σχοινιά

Με χορεύει ο άνεμος
Σαν αφηρημένο

Το πόδι μου έχει πάρει
Όψη κοφτερής φτερούγας

Είσαι αυτό που δεν είναι
Δεν έχει όνομα
Όπως αχτίνα ματιού

Όπως τα δέντρα με τ’ άστρα
Το νερό που τραγουδάει
Και δεν ξέρει τίποτα

Από τη συλλογή Γυμνό παράθυρο (1945) του Γιώργου Θέμελη

Οι ποιητές της Θεσσαλονίκης τον 20ό αιώνα και ως σήμερα (ανθολογία) / Γιώργος Θέμελης

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Οι ισχυρές και με τεράστιο πολιτισμό και κύρος σημαντικές και πολυάνθρωπες ακαρνανικές καστροπολιτείες της αρχαίας Στράτου, της αρχαίας Μητρόπολης (κατά πάσα πιθανότητα ταυτίζεται με την Παλαιομάνινα), των αρχαίων Οινιαδών και του αρχαίου “Παλαιόκαστρου” στη Ρίγανη που ήταν και είναι μόνιμοι σύντροφοι επί αιώνες του Πολυγύριστου Αχελώου περιμένουν να εκδηλωθεί, επιτέλους, ενδιαφέρον για εκτεταμένη επιστημονική και αρχαιολογική έρευνα!

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